


Repossessed

by applesofthemoon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Choking, Collars, Come Eating, M/M, Master/Slave, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Abuse, Scars, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-11 15:10:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12937917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/applesofthemoon/pseuds/applesofthemoon
Summary: Ten years after the events ofIndemnify, a lot has changed for Theon and Roose. But some things--the important things--never will.





	Repossessed

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Indemnify](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885856) by [Deathtouch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deathtouch/pseuds/Deathtouch). 



> The #ThrooseSlavefic gave me an erection lasting longer than four hours and I had to seek medical attention.

Theon arrived on Fair Isle at eight-thirty in the morning, touching down at a small airport only a few miles from the coast. With him were two junior executives and his assistant, a quiet kid called Wex who couldn't make a tolerable cup of coffee to save his life. There was a car waiting for them outside the baggage claim. In the passenger seat, Theon texted his mentor and a few of his staffers back at headquarters. Then he put away his phone, laid his head against the headrest, and watched through the window as the scenery slid by.

Faircastle Hotel was a tower of mirrored glass, with a digital sign out front welcoming visitors to the showcase. Greyjoy Shipping had been assigned a table on the second floor, beside a wall of windows overlooking the hotel's meticulously-manicured grounds. Theon sent Wex for coffee, giving silent thanks that he would have no part in its preparation, and got the rest of the team started on setting up their display. He looked at his watch, situated on his left wrist just below the strap that secured his prosthetic fingers. It was a quarter til ten. He had plenty of time to take a lap around the show floor.

Like Theon, the nearby vendors weren’t selling slaves; instead, they represented the wider circle of businesses that supported and were supported by the slaving industry. One table’s display advertised clear silicone shoes meant to protect a sex slave’s feet while maintaining the popular naked look. Another was giving out free samples of a nutrition bar ostensibly so complete that it would eliminate the need for cafeterias in training facilities. _Completely disgusting is more like it,_ Theon thought as he choked down a square. _Anyone tries to feed this to their stock, they’ll have a revolt on their hands._

The trainers’ tables were more in the thick of things, where visitors would see them as soon as they stepped off the escalators from the first floor. All of the usual suspects were in attendance: Lannisters and Westerlings, Daynes and Drinkwaters. At the Tyrell table, Willas Tyrell presided over a group of sex slaves with roses embossed in the leather of their collars. “Nice selection you’ve got here,” Theon observed, pausing to enjoy the view.

“Your eyes are bigger than your stomach,” Willas said teasingly. He knew very well that Theon didn’t keep slaves, except for the house slaves that had served the Greyjoys all their lives and had nowhere else to go. “You don’t plan on taking up space at my table once the paying customers arrive, do you?”

“Not if you’re going to be so inhospitable.” Theon looked to Jarrin, Willas’s personal slave. “Jarrin, you really must teach your owner some manners.”

Jarrin smiled. He was old for a sex slave––older than Theon, if only by a year or two––but better-looking than many of the younger ones, with his cocoa-brown skin and mischievous hazel eyes. “Oh, but ser, I do so like him rude.”

Willas gave a snort of laughter and came out from behind the table, the rubber tip of his cane squeaking against the hotel’s marble floor. “Would you like to hear something interesting?” he asked Theon.

“If it comes from your sweet lips.”

Willas laughed again. “Well,” he said, “according to a friend of a friend, King’s Landing has just had a late shipment of naval slaves from White Harbor. So late that the ship they were meant to serve on had left port by the time they turned up.” They glanced down the way at the Manderlys’ table, where a handful of muscular youths in sailor costumes were being fussed over by a trainer. “It was the shipper’s fault––Sunderland, if I recall correctly––but the Manderlys lost the client and a great deal of money. Wyman’s furious.” Willas gave Theon a nudge with his shoulder. “I expect he’ll be in the market for a new shipping company.”

“You don’t say.” Theon remembered the Manderlys all too well, though he’d only met them once. They had never had need of the Greyjoys or their services, and Theon hadn’t been eager to solicit their business. “They’re here today? All of them?”

“Wylis and Wendel, at least. I saw them when they claimed their table. Can’t say where they’ve gone now.” Willas cocked an eyebrow at Theon. “Looking for you, perhaps.”

“Yes, the Manderlys are historically quite fond of looking at me.” 

“They could be looking at a hefty bill if you play your cards right.”

“Then it’s lucky for me I’ve got a good poker face.” Theon checked his watch. It was ten on the dot, time for the showcase to start, and visitors were beginning to trickle through the hall. “I should be going,” he said. “Look after this one, will you, Jarrin? Make sure he doesn’t strain himself.”

Jarrin cast his owner a knowing look. “As you say, ser.”

By the time Theon got near his table, the trickle of showgoers had become a steadily-flowing stream. Through the crowd he glimpsed a pair of men, heavy but well-dressed, standing at his table talking with one of his staffers. _What timing,_ he thought. He straightened his tie, fastened the top button of his suit jacket, and swept in to take the reins.

“Gentlemen,” he said, reaching across the table to shake each of the Manderly brothers firmly by the hand. “I see you’ve met my VP of client relations.”

“Yes,” one of them said––which one, Theon wasn’t sure. They were practically twins, sporting identical grey suits and identical drooping moustaches. Their cheeks and foreheads shone with identical films of sweat. “Are you the one in charge here?” The brother who had spoken squinted at Theon. “You look rather young.”

They didn’t recognize him. Of course they didn’t recognize him. It had been ten years since they’d first met, and they had no cause to connect the head of Greyjoy Shipping to the pretty slave they’d once fondled at Roose Bolton’s training facility. “Thank you,” Theon said blithely. He turned to his staffer. “Mind if I take it from here?”

Theon led the Manderly brothers to a small seating area adjacent to his table, furnished with three upholstered chairs and a round coffee table. “I got a look at some of your boys earlier,” Theon said. “You have a fine crop this year, don’t you? Strong.” He seated himself in one of the armchairs and waited as the Manderlys eased their bulk into the other two. “Is the head of the company in attendance today?”

“Our father is at White Harbor,” one of them said. It was Wendel, Theon decided; he thought he remembered that the smaller of the two was Wendel. “He’s been feeling poorly of late.”

“What a shame,” Theon said. “I had so hoped we’d have a chance to catch up.”

The Manderlys regarded him dubiously. “You know our father?” asked Wylis.

“Of course I know Wyman. We met at the old Bolton place, when I was...in a different line of work.” Theon smiled. “Surely you remember.”

Wendel and Wylis looked at one another, and then they looked back at Theon. Yes, they remembered now. He could see it in the flush climbing the rolls of their necks. All of a sudden they looked deeply uncomfortable, as if...well, as if they were being paraded naked before a party of handsy strangers. Theon just went on smiling, innocent as the spring.

Wylis pulled out a handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his brow. “Yes, well,” he said, “that was so long ago.”

“Ancient history,” Theon agreed. “Now, shall we discuss what brought you to my table today?”

“We, ah...Father’s looking to contract with a new shipping company,” said Wendel. “We’re told Greyjoy’s the best.”

“How kind of you to say. We do try to make our clients happy.” Theon sat forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. Wendel’s eyes darted downward, then up to Theon’s face, then back down again, and Wylis quickly followed suit. Theon knew they were staring at his prosthesis, but it didn’t bother him. At least this time they weren’t staring at his cock. “But I’m afraid we’re stretched quite thin as it is. Our services are much in demand, and our current clients keep us very busy.”

“What clients?” Wylis said. “What are they paying you? We’ll top it.”

“Why, Mr. Manderly, surely you’re not suggesting I drop a loyal client mid-contract? That would be bad business sense.”

Wylis grunted his disdain for that philosophy. “You’ve got a lot to learn, boy, if you think loyalty has anything to do with business.”

“Well…” Theon drew the word out as if he were thinking hard on the matter. “Perhaps there is something I can do for you. For the right price.”

He took a pen and a business card from an inner pocket of his suit jacket, wrote a number on the back of the card, and slid it across the coffee table between their chairs. The Manderlys leaned forward. When they read what he had written, their faces turned purple. “Ridiculous!” blustered Wendel. “That’s highway robbery!”

“That, as you say, is business.” Theon tucked his pen back into its pocket. “My clients come to me for quality, but if it’s a bargain you want, you’ll have to look elsewhere. I hear the Sunderlands have open slots.”

Wylis pressed his lips together. He glared down at the card, as if he could change the figure written there by sheer force of will. “Very well,” he said at length, stuffing the card into his breast pocket. “You’ve got a deal.”

“I’m so glad we could come to an agreement.” Theon smiled again, broad and easy. “I’ll send your details to HQ, and they’ll have a contract over to Wyman by tomorrow morning.” He stood and dealt out a hearty round of parting handshakes. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“The pleasure was all ours,” Wendel said grimly.

When Theon returned to his table, he found his mentor there waiting for him, looking characteristically bored. Beside him was a blond boy with freckled shoulders and big, curious eyes, wearing a red and white collar and nothing else. “Not making enemies, I hope?” said Roose, glancing briefly in the Manderlys’ direction.

“On the contrary,” Theon told him. “I’m making friends.”

And why shouldn’t he call the Manderlys his friends? They had a deal, and he meant to uphold his end of it. He would provide his newest clients with excellent service––at twice his regular rate, plus an extra fifty percent for calling him “boy.”

––

“And who’s this?”

Roose looked at the boy next to him. “He’s called Angel, for the time being,” he said. “Angel, you may greet Mr. Greyjoy.”

Angel looked up, meeting Theon’s eyes. It was poor form for a collared slave, but Roose would forgive it just this once. They were the sort of eyes that were difficult to resist. “Good morning, Mr. Greyjoy.”

Theon smiled. “It is a good morning, isn’t it? I’ve just signed a new client, and now I have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Is this your first showcase?”

“Yes, ser,” said Angel.

“Well, of course it is. Otherwise someone would have snapped you up by now.”

“Horton has asked me to take Angel for a walk around the show floor,” Roose said. “Care to join us?”

Theon looked over his shoulder at the staffers manning his table. “Sure,” he said. “Just give me a minute to check in first.”

Roose waited while Theon spoke with his staffers and gave greeting to a few visitors. He seemed quite at ease behind his table, smiling and laughing as if attending a showcase were great fun. This from the boy who had gone to pieces the night before his first showcase as a representative of his family’s company, dry-heaving and hyperventilating and sobbing that he couldn’t _do_ it, he’d embarrass his family, he’d embarrass himself, he’d make another mistake and ruin everything all over again. Roose wouldn’t have believed the change if he hadn’t had a hand in it.

These days, his role in Theon’s life was largely hands-off. Theon didn’t need Roose the way he had in the past, and it would have been detrimental to his reputation for him to be living with his mentor. No one would take him seriously if his relationship with Roose was seen to be anything but professional. So Roose had taken a position as a consultant at Horton Redfort’s training facility, a quiet little place in the mountains of the Vale. The work was slower-paced than the work of running a training facility, which was probably for the best. Loathe as Roose was to admit it, he wasn't getting any faster with age.

Theon, on the other hand, was as energetic as ever. As they set off to tour the show floor, he fell in beside Angel and put a hand on the slave’s arm, drawing him out from behind Roose. “So tell me,” he said companionably, “does Mr. Redfort treat you well?”

Angel bit his lip and looked to Roose. “Don’t be rude, boy,” Roose said. “Answer the question.”

“Yes, ser,” Angel said promptly. 

“And my mentor here,” Theon prodded, “what about him?”

“Yes, ser.”

“And you, Angel,” Roose cut in. “Tell Mr. Greyjoy how you've treated us, since he seems to have forgotten to ask.”

“I was getting to it,” Theon said.

“I...I’m very good, ser.” Angel paused, looked at the floor, and dropped his voice a note as he added, “Now.”

That was an important qualification. Roose was proud of the boy’s progress, but he was well aware of the hard work it represented. It had taken Angel’s trainer eighteen months to have him ready to sell–-an extraordinarily long turnaround time for a sex slave. “The name ‘Angel’ was something of a joke,” Roose told Theon.

“Gave someone’s paddling arm a workout, did you?” Theon laughed. “No harm in that. Trainers have to earn their paychecks somehow.” He clapped the boy on the shoulder and turned his attention to the press of people around them, combing the crowd with sharp blue eyes. They zeroed in on an olive-skinned young woman in a red jumpsuit, standing some thirty feet away. “Ah, there’s Arianne,” Theon said. “We’ve been playing phone tag for weeks. Excuse me, will you?” 

He darted off, quick as a fish through water. Roose checked his watch. There was no telling how long Theon's little sidetrack might take, and Roose was disinclined to waste time waiting on him. “Come along,” he said to Angel. “He'll catch up.”

“Ser…”

Roose rounded on the boy, ready to scold him for his hesitation, but he stopped cold when he saw what Angel was seeing. Plowing through the sea of showgoers was a pack of men dressed in trainers’ uniforms, orbiting around the unmistakable bulk of Gregor Clegane. If possible, he was even bigger and more brutish than he’d been the last time Roose had seen him. His shadow fell heavily across the show floor, reaching Roose and Angel a good few seconds before the man himself.

“Bolton,” he rumbled, glaring down at them from his absurd height. “This your boy?”

“He's Redfort stock.” Roose put a hand on Angel’s back. The slave had frozen solid where he stood, his whole body stiff with apprehension. “I'm just his chaperone.”

“He’s a pretty one,” said one of Gregor’s hangers-on, a light-haired young man with a miserable-looking slave on a choke chain. “Ser likes his boys pretty. Don't you, ser?”

“Are you shopping today, Gregor?” Roose inquired. “I would think you’d prefer to break a slave in yourself.”

The Clegane training facility had been shut down by Slave Protective Services some years ago, but that hadn’t kept Gregor from bullying his way into a job as head trainer at another facility down in Cornfield. He would have plenty of raw slaves at his disposal––enough that he shouldn't need to purchase someone else’s product. “Raw slaves are too much work,” Gregor grunted. He wasn't a man much given to smiling, but there was a smile in his eyes, a hard daggerlike smile twisting slowly into the boy at Roose’s side. “I want something ready to eat.”

“If you're hungry, I suggest you visit the café,” Roose said. “It’s just downstairs.”

Gregor snorted and reached out to thump a nearby table, the force of his blow jostling the display. “Raff, bring that boy here,” he said to the light-haired man. “Let’s have a closer look.”

“Go on,” Roose said to Angel. He had no standing to refuse a potential customer an inspection of saleable merchandise, even a potential customer as loathsome as Gregor Clegane. To his credit, Angel did as he was told without looking scared shitless. He let Gregor’s man bend him over the table, giving no thought to the business being conducted there. He widened his stance when Gregor told him to and squeaked most charmingly when a hastily-lubricated forefinger, long and thick as some men’s cocks, slid between his ass cheeks.

Roose wasn’t especially interested in watching Gregor finger the boy, and he turned his head to survey the show floor instead. It was then that he saw Theon, still talking with Arianne Martell, but paying her little attention. He was looking at Gregor and Angel, his brows drawn together in a frown. He wouldn’t come over, would he? Roose was reasonably sure he’d keep his distance. Theon may have been all swagger with the Manderlys, but the Manderlys were about as dangerous as a slice of cheesecake. Gregor Clegane was a different story.

While Roose had been looking at Theon, Gregor had managed to stuff a second finger inside of Angel. Now he pulled both fingers out and gave the boy a slap on the ass, raising a red welt on his fair skin. “I like what I feel, Bolton,” Gregor said, wiping his hand dry on the back of Angel’s thigh. “Tell that old sod Redfort he may just have a new customer before the day is out.”

“I'll be sure to pass on the message,” Roose said.

With that, Gregor was on his way, his flunkies and their hapless slaves close behind him. Roose helped Angel stand upright. The boy looked a bit pained––and who wouldn’t, after having two of Gregor Clegane’s massive fingers rammed halfway up his large intestine?––but Roose was less concerned about that than the angry red mark on his right ass cheek. Horton wouldn’t be pleased to see it, and neither would any of the other showgoers who might be interested in Angel.

Theon picked that moment to appear in front of Roose, wearing a dire look on his face. “Did I hear Clegane say what I think I heard him say?” 

Roose snorted. “The way that man bellows, I expect everyone on this floor heard what he said.”

Theon looked at Angel, then back at Roose. “You're not going to sell Angel to him, are you?” he demanded.

“I'm not going to sell Angel to anyone. He belongs to Horton Redfort.”

“But you're not going to let Redfort sell Angel to him, _are you?_ ”

Roose did not take kindly to being publicly interrogated by anyone, least of all his protégé. “Lower your voice, Theon. You're making a scene.” He spoke softly, so that Theon had to lean in close to hear him. “Horton will do as he sees fit with Angel. Unless you want the boy for yourself, it’s none of your business.” He took Angel by the elbow and thrust him before Theon. “Well?”

Theon’s eyes burned with anger, and his neck flushed above the crisp white collar of his shirt. Roose was sure there was much he would have liked to say, but with what was perhaps his last shred of self-control, he chose not to say anything. He just turned and strode off, shoving his way through the crowd. Roose didn’t watch him go.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said to Angel, and took him to a restroom just down the hall. Inside, a row of white stall doors glowed under fluorescent lighting. Roose and Angel were the only ones in the restroom, and when Roose went to a sink to wet a paper towel, the sound of the water hitting the basin was startlingly loud.

Roose used the paper towel to swab the smear of lube from Angel’s thigh. “You did well, Angel,” he said, noticing a certain tightness about the boy’s mouth. “What’s troubling you?” He balled up the paper towel and threw it away. “Spit it out.”

He expected Angel to make some complaint about Gregor Clegane, to say he was afraid of him, he didn’t want to go home with him. He expected he’d have to remind Angel of his place, just as he’d had to remind Theon. But the boy surprised him. “Your friend,” he said. “Mr. Greyjoy. Why does he care what happens to me?”

Why indeed? Roose sighed. “Because when he looks at you, it’s not you he sees.”

Roose didn’t cross paths with Theon again until that night, when the showcase was over and the vendors and trainers had gathered at the hotel bar to unwind. The space was large and well-appointed, with tufted leather booths and high-top tables artfully arranged beneath red glass pendant lights. Roose sat at the bar with Horton Redfort and his trainers, nursing a glass of seltzer water and watching his protégé from the corner of his eye.

Theon was sitting in a booth with Willas Tyrell and his personal slave. It was the same slave who’d been attending events with Willas for ages, the one with smooth dark skin and almond-shaped eyes. It was apparent that Willas would never discard him, but he really should have transitioned to a companion by now. Roose wondered if Willas meant to have him stroll about naked until his balls dragged the ground. 

The slave himself seemed to take no issue with his position. He sat cuddled up to Willas with his head on his shoulder, gazing adoringly up at his owner. Roose had had an adoring slave once. Now he had a protégé who threw a temper tantrum when Roose did something he disliked. That was a bad deal by any businessman’s standards.

Willas probably never did anything Theon disliked. The eldest Tyrell wasn't as scintillatingly handsome as his younger brothers, but he was by no means unpleasant to look at. Roose wouldn't have been surprised if he and Theon had shared a bed at some point. In fact, he would almost have been surprised if they hadn't. Two good-looking young men, obviously fond of each other, unattached and in reasonably good health––it was only natural that they should have a bit of fun now and then.

Roose looked at his watch and saw that it was well past nine. He finished his drink, said goodnight to Horton and his staff, and crossed the room to Theon’s booth. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Are we celebrating or indulging?”

“Why not both?” Willas said, swirling the contents of his highball glass. Theon had one of his own, Roose saw, but it was only half-emptied, and he didn’t have the sleepy, red-cheeked look he got when he’d had too much to drink. “Will you join us, Roose? To celebrate or indulge, as you please.”

Theon didn’t chime in. He seemed to be taking great pains to look as if he didn’t care whether Roose joined them or not. “I’m afraid both are sports for younger men,” Roose said. “I merely came to bid you goodnight.”

Willas smiled. “And a good night it shall be.”

Roose’s room was on the twenty-first floor, with a view of the hotel’s grounds and parking lot and the road beyond, streaming with white and red lights. Roose drew the curtains, stepped out of his shoes, and took off his tie and suit jacket. He took a book from his overnight bag and sat down on the bed to read.

The book was a bestseller, a sweeping historical epic that followed a son, father, and grandfather as their fortunes rose and fell over time. Roose found it insipid. He’d never much cared for fiction, but Horton had lent him the book, so he felt obligated to suffer through at least the first quarter of it. Horton was forever trying to set Roose up with a hobby––reading, golfing, antique car restoring. He was convinced that Roose needed to take more pleasure in life. What he refused to understand was that nothing––well, almost nothing––gave Roose as much pleasure as remaining relevant in his industry. 

He put the book aside, opened his laptop, and looked up a list of slave auctions scheduled for the next six months. It was enough to keep him busy until he heard the rattle of the door, propped open a crack by the security latch. He looked up to see Theon, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, his tie hanging undone around his neck. 

“Did Willas Tyrell walk you to my door?” Roose said dryly.

Theon frowned. “He didn't mean what you think he meant,” he said. “I haven't told him anything.”

He put down his jacket and his overnight bag and began to unbutton his shirt. It was a slow, methodical process, made so by the limited dexterity of the prosthetic fingers on Theon’s left hand. Roose could have done it himself in a third of the time, but he made no move to intervene. He had learned a long time ago that what Theon needed at moments like this wasn't help, but patience.

At length Theon finished with his shirt and slid down his pants and briefs. Last of all he took off his prosthesis, peeling back the strap that affixed it to his wrist with the characteristic _rip_ of Velcro hooks parting from their loops. Without the prosthetic fingers, Theon’s hand was starkly ugly, like a bird’s foot. Roose didn’t like looking at it. He looked instead at the rest of Theon, standing there naked as the day they met. He looked at his skin, honey-gold in the lamplight. He looked at his eyes, darting anxiously from the floor to the bed and back again. He looked at his cock, already half-hard with anticipation.

Roose closed his laptop and set it on the nightstand. “Bring me my bag,” he said.

Roose’s overnight bag was black leather, nicely broken in over years of use. Theon picked it up and crawled onto the bed. He watched, wide-eyed, as Roose took a cloth-wrapped bundle from an inner pocket of the bag. Inside the wrapping was a red leather collar. Theon's breath hitched when he saw it. He gathered his shoulder-length black hair in one hand and pulled it to one side, out of the way, so Roose could buckle the collar around his neck.

The moment the collar was in place, Roose grabbed a handful of Theon’s hair and kissed him, hard. Theon practically shook with relief. He kissed back desperately, as if he'd been starving for Roose’s touch. His mouth was wet and hot and he tasted faintly of his vodka soda, a clean, crisp taste that filled Roose’s mouth along with Theon’s tongue. He was fully hard now, rubbing himself eagerly against Roose’s thigh. That was fine with Roose. The boy could rut and writhe all he liked; he wouldn’t come until Roose allowed it.

Theon sighed with displeasure when Roose’s mouth left his, but it was only an instant before it was on his neck, licking and sucking at a spot that made his cock twitch against Roose’s leg. Roose felt for the tube of lubricant in his overnight bag and slicked his fingers without missing a beat. He reached between Theon's legs and passed his wet fingertips over his entrance, along the crack of his ass. Theon squirmed and ground down impatiently, wanting more, _now._

If Willas Tyrell had fucked Theon, it hadn't been recently. The boy felt almost virginal, his muscles clenching in protest as Roose worked a lubed finger inside him. He pushed it in to the knuckle and flexed it, making Theon moan and clutch at Roose’s neck. “Please,” he said. The way he rocked his hips into Roose’s hand left no question as to what he meant.

“Please what?” Roose asked him, withdrawing to tease his rim with two fingers.

“Oh God,” he breathed. “Please, ser.”

Roose gave him both fingers, and the way Theon’s body contracted and sucked them in made Roose’s cock strain against the crotch of his pants. He wasn’t the quivering mess Theon was, but he wanted the boy, badly. Of course he did. Only a eunuch wouldn’t.

Roose pumped and scissored his fingers until Theon opened to his satisfaction, and then he lay back and told the boy to ride his cock. “Turn around,” he said when Theon began to do it the way he usually did, facing Roose. Theon didn't object. He turned and lowered himself onto Roose’s hard cock, swallowing him an inch at a time. In this position, Roose could see Theon’s hole stretched taut around his girth, the muscles in his thighs jumping as he sank ever downward. He could see the arch of Theon’s back, a nearly perfect curve.

There was a lot that Roose could see in this position, and it wasn’t all pretty. He saw Theon’s feet and the stumps of his missing toes. He saw the ridges of scar tissue crisscrossing his ass and thighs. Roose reached out and squeezed Theon’s ass cheeks, smoothing his thumbs along those scars. Nothing could restore Theon’s lost fingers and toes, but scars could be lasered away. Many years ago, Roose had taken Theon to a doctor who specialized in such things. Theon had refused to go back after the first session. _It hurt,_ he’d said, bewildered, betrayed. _You didn’t tell me it was going to hurt._

Roose forced the memory out of his head and returned his attention to what was in front of him, to the firm young body moving up and down on his cock. Theon’s back was pink with exertion, and beads of sweat sequined his skin. He was so warm inside, so tight. He leaned forward and put his hands on the bed so he could drive himself down harder, taking Roose’s full length with every roll of his hips.

It wasn’t long at all before Roose felt Theon tense and shudder, before he heard him say, “Please, ser. I want to come.”

Yes, he certainly did. Theon’s body felt exquisite when he was on the edge of orgasm, with all that pent-up pressure bearing down on Roose’s cock. It would be better if it lasted awhile longer, though. Roose sat up, pushing Theon further forward. He got up onto his knees and took Theon by the hips. “You disrespected me today,” he said, fucking the boy slowly as he spoke. 

Theon froze. That wasn't what he'd been hoping to hear. “Yes, ser,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“Do you think you deserve to come?”

“I…” Theon made a pitiful hiccuping sound. “No, ser.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I need to.”

“You don't need to,” Roose told him. “You want to. You just said as much.”

“Fuck,” Theon whimpered. His arms gave out and his upper body collapsed onto the bed, his dark hair tumbling across the white linen.

Roose pulled Theon backward onto his cock. Theon groaned and fisted the comforter, but he didn't ask to come again. He behaved himself, as well he ought to. This had all been his idea, after all.

Roose had waited a year––well, eleven months––to fuck Theon once he got him back from Ramsay. When the time had come, Roose had been exceedingly careful. He had touched Theon gently, had kissed and caressed him...and Theon had been bored to tears. Roose’s own hand would have been more responsive. The second time had been no better than the first; the third had been arguably worse. They had fought about it. Theon had said something nasty, something Roose couldn’t remember now. He had probably sworn. 

Roose shouldn’t have let the boy provoke him. He shouldn’t have, but he had, and in the heat of the moment he had taken Theon by the arm, pulled him over his knee, and spanked him mercilessly. Afterward, he’d felt like a fool. Then he’d felt something else: Theon’s cock, hard and pulsing against Roose’s leg.

A few days later, he’d presented Theon with his collar, the one he had never properly earned as a slave. That was when the game had begun. That was when they had established their understanding: Theon was no longer Roose’s property, but he would always belong to him.

Roose bent over Theon and slid a hand beneath his collar, pulling it tight around his throat. Theon’s muscles jerked. He went from panting to wheezing, and his neck flushed so darkly it matched his collar. “Do you still want to come?” Roose murmured into his ear.

“Only,” he choked out, “only...if you want me to...ser.”

With his free hand, Roose took hold of Theon's cock. “Do it, then,” he said, tugging roughly. “Come for me, boy.”

Theon came with an airless sob, his body seizing and his cock spurting all over Roose’s hand. It took only a few more thrusts for Roose to follow suit. The sensation of orgasm swept through him in a wave, and he grunted as he spent deep inside of Theon. One by one, he unwound his fingers from the red collar. Theon gasped and coughed, his back heaving.

Roose eased out of Theon, a strand of come trailing from the tip of his softening cock. The boy looked delicious this way: freshly-fucked, his limbs splayed like a marionette’s, his hair wild and his face smeared with sweat and tears. The way he looked dressed for a day on the show floor simply couldn't compare. 

Once he was breathing steadily again, Theon sat up and turned to face Roose. Without hesitation, he took the hand that, moments before, had been wrapped around his cock, and closed his lips around its forefinger. Roose felt his tongue swirling lovingly around each joint, washing away the sticky streaks of come. He did the same thing to Roose’s other fingers, and when all five had been sucked clean he peered up at Roose through his eyelashes and said, “Thank you.”

Roose cupped his chin and kissed him. “Um,” Theon mumbled against Roose’s lips. Roose drew back to look him in the eyes. “May I use the bathroom, please? Ser?”

Roose considered it. No doubt it was uncomfortable for Theon, holding in a full load of come, but Roose rather liked the thought of it. “No,” he said.

Theon made a face, but he didn’t complain. He curled up on top of the comforter and put his head in Roose’s lap, and Roose stroked his hair while he perused the room service menu on the nightstand. Evening drinks were customary among the showcase set, but there was rarely any formalized dining, which suited Theon and Roose just fine. Roose decided on a turkey burger with greens and goat cheese, one of the hotel’s healthier options. He knew Theon often ate poorly unsupervised––candy bars between meetings, fast food on his way home from the office––and considered their time together an opportunity to fit some actual nourishment into the boy’s diet.

The food arrived half an hour after Roose called in the order. While they waited, they watched a late-night news recap on the TV on the bureau. Well, Roose watched it; Theon dozed beside him, stirring only when Roose’s hand threatened to leave his hair. He roused long enough to be fed, taking bites of burger from the end of Roose’s fork, then fell asleep with his head on Roose’s thigh. He was dead to the world, exhausted by a day of hard work and an evening of harder play. Too late, Roose remembered he’d never sent him to the toilet. He would leak come all over the bed linens, and if it didn’t come out in the wash Roose would have to foot the hotel’s dry-cleaning bill. _So be it,_ he thought. Roose had been accused of cruelty in the past, but even he wasn’t cruel enough to wake Theon now.

Roose got up, undressed, and folded back the comforter, pulling it carefully from beneath Theon’s still form. He turned off the lamp on the nightstand and got into bed. Theon’s body seemed to be expecting his embrace; his back molded to Roose’s front as if he’d been born spooning with him. 

He would have made such a fine slave––perhaps the finest Roose had ever trained. Roose could have had him all day and every night. He could have been his alone, forever. If Roose hadn’t given him to Ramsay. If he hadn’t left him home alone after their first showcase together. If his sister hadn’t come for him. If his father were still alive.

If, if, if. Roose had had his fill of _if_ when Domeric died. The fact was that Theon had become who he was always meant to be, and Roose had more of him than he was ever meant to have. It was enough. It would have to be enough. 

Roose shut his eyes and went to sleep.

––

Sometimes Theon thought about what his life might have been like if he had never been a slave. If he had never belonged to the Starks, or Roose or Ramsay, and he had grown up on Pyke the way he was supposed to. He would probably have all of his fingers and toes, and far fewer scars. But he would probably also be a jerk, the way he remembered his older brothers being. 

And he surely wouldn’t be here, in bed with Roose, with Roose’s arm draped possessively across his middle and Roose’s nose buried in his hair. It was still early, Theon realized as he woke. The digital clock on the nightstand read five past six. He rolled over, feeling a wet spot on the bed linens beneath him. Beneath the comforter, he threaded one of his legs between Roose’s and pushed his morning wood against Roose’s upper thigh, the motion too lazy to be called rubbing. Soon he felt Roose shift onto his back, bringing Theon with him. He pulled Theon’s leg over his hip so that Theon lay straddling him, his cock pressed between the cheeks of Theon’s ass.

Theon’s hole was still slick and open from the night before, so it was easy for him to reach back and guide Roose’s cock inside him. He shivered with pleasure as he rocked down onto it, loving the sensation of being spread, filled, claimed. Roose carded a hand into his hair and held Theon’s head against his chest. He moved in time with Theon, slow and rhythmic, their bodies flowing together like water. There were no sounds in the room but their breathing and the rustle of the comforter.

Theon was in no hurry to finish, but eventually the need for release overcame him. Panting urgently, he asked Roose’s permission to come, and this time he received it. Within moments, he was biting out a cry, his come rushing hot onto Roose’s belly. Roose took him by the hips and thrust up into him until he came as well, sighing Theon’s name into his hair. 

They lay still for awhile afterward, soaking up the afterglow. Outside, the sun was coming up. Theon couldn’t see it, but he could see its light slanting in under the curtains, rosy with the newness of the day. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Roose. “Ser?” he said. 

“Yes, Theon?”

“There’s something I want to ask you, but I’m afraid of what you might say.”

Roose regarded him thoughtfully. He reached out and undid Theon’s collar, the buckle clinking softly as it came away in his hands. “Ask.”

Theon touched his neck, missing the snug sensation of the collar fastened around it. He supposed they would be speaking as equals now, or at least as close to equals as he and Roose would ever get. “Did Clegane come back for Angel?”

Roose’s mouth crooked in a way that told Theon the question wasn’t a surprise. “He did,” he said, “but he won’t be leaving with him. Horton declined his offer.”

Theon blinked. His heart jumped in his chest. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Do you think I would lie to you?”

“No, it’s––I––” Theon stopped and regrouped. “Thank you.” _Thank you, ser,_ he almost said, but caught himself just in time.

“Horton Redfort is a slaver, not a butcher. He doesn’t work with buyers who would treat his merchandise like meat.” Roose arched an eyebrow. “It was nothing to do with you.”

“I know,” Theon said quickly. “Thank you for telling me, I meant.” 

He let himself down again, resting his head on Roose’s chest. He closed his eyes and pulled Roose’s smell into his nose. Right now it was mostly the smell of sex, but there was also the woodsy smell of Roose's cologne, and the smell of the starched cotton shirt that had lived next to his skin all day yesterday. For Theon, they were the smells of home. Before he knew Roose, he hadn’t known what it was like to have a home. “I really am sorry about yesterday,” he murmured.

“I know,” Roose said.

“I didn’t mean to disrespect you.”

“I know.”

“I want to make you happy.”

Theon braced himself for another _I know,_ but it didn’t come. “You do, Theon,” Roose said. “Very much.”

“Even when I do dumb things?”

“Especially when you do dumb things.”

Theon raised his head and wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Especially?”

Roose pushed Theon’s hair back from his face. “Well,” he said, “if you never misbehaved, I would never get to punish you.”

Theon smiled. He thought briefly of a conversation he’d had with Asha some years ago, while Roose was still living with them in their family home on Pyke. _Why are you still with him?_ she had asked. _You’re free now, you know. You can do as you please._

Theon had nodded. _Roose pleases me._

Asha wanted what was best for him, but she didn’t understand. It was probably hard to, from the outside. _Okay,_ she’d said, grimacing, _spare me the details._

Roose took Theon by the back of the neck and brought their mouths together, kissing him with his familiar focused intensity. Theon let himself enjoy it for a moment. Then he bit down, and not gently. “That hurt,” Roose observed, tonguing his lower lip.

Theon wiggled his eyebrows. “Badly enough to deserve a punishment?”

Roose thought about it. “Not quite,” he said, and kissed Theon again.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: the first long-form fanwork I ever published online was an InuYasha slavefic. Everyone involved was wildly out of character and I used the word "member" so many times I think I'm legally banned from ever writing it again, but boy did I have fun. This was fun, too. Thanks Deathtouch for all the boners and for letting me take a walk through your little world. I hope I did it justice.


End file.
